Lamentation (The Shardlake Series Book 6) (63 page)

‘A busy summer. And you, Philip?’

‘My wife and I feel happier now the heresy hunt is over.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I took some books in yesterday, under the amnesty, good books written by men of true faith, but now forbidden. I have delayed doing it, for I was much attached to them, but the amnesty expires on Monday.’

‘I had some, too. I burned them, as I preferred not to have my name appear on a list.’

‘The amnesty is public, and many people have brought in books. Perhaps even some from Whitehall.’ He laughed uneasily. ‘If they prosecuted those who took advantage of the amnesty, that would be a great breach of faith, and illegal.’ He smiled sadly, looking out of the window at the quadrangle. ‘My books are a big loss to me, but our vicar says we must wait, for better times may be coming.’

I was glad he did not know about Bertano. I said, ‘I am visiting Gray’s Inn on other business this afternoon, but I have just had a strange encounter with Isabel Slanning and Brother Dyrick. I thought I should tell you.’

His face became serious. ‘What now? Dyrick has been pestering and bothering me about the depositions and other aspects of the case, trying to bully me in his usual manner. But he has not mentioned this nonsense about conspiracy again. I had hoped he was discouraging Isabel from going down that path. I would, if I were him. The courts will not welcome it.’

‘I think he may be trying to. When I ran into them just now, Dyrick was civil enough for once, and tried to hustle Isabel away. But she told me again she knew all about you, me and her brother conspiring together, and that we would pay, as she put it, the highest price.’

‘Dyrick did not back her up?’

‘Far from it, which is unusual for him. I begin to think Isabel is seriously unhinged. But Dyrick looked worried, and I cannot but wonder what she may have planned.’

Philip’s cheerful manner was gone. ‘Is there further word concerning her complaint about you to Lincoln’s Inn?’ he asked anxiously.

‘None. But Treasurer Rowland was going to write her a sharp letter. I should have expected a copy but I have heard nothing yet. I will call on him.’

Coleswyn considered a moment, then said, ‘I have discovered something else.’ He took a deep breath. ‘A few days ago, I was dining in hall when I saw a friend of mine from another chambers, who knows I have the Cotterstoke case – Dyrick’s cases are always a source of gossip round Gray’s Inn. He introduced me to a retired barrister, now over seventy, but of good memory. When he was young – this is over forty years ago – he acted for Edward and Isabel’s mother.’

I looked up with interest. ‘Oh?’

He hesitated. ‘Strictly, even though old Deborah Cotterstoke is dead, his duty of confidentiality remains. But you know how old fellows like to gossip. And I cannot help but be interested in anything concerning that family.’ He frowned. ‘I should not tell you, I suppose.’

I smiled gently. Coleswyn’s integrity was one of the things I admired in him. ‘I no longer represent Isabel. And I promise it will go no further.’ I inclined my head. ‘And if a former client threatens a barrister, as Isabel did this afternoon, I think he is entitled to seek out anything which might throw light on the circumstances. I take it the old man’s story does that, Philip?’

He grunted acknowledgement. ‘Not directly. But you and I have both wondered whence came the mutual hatred, and perhaps fear, in which Edward Cotterstoke and Isabel Slanning hold each other.’

‘Yes. It is surely something out of the ordinary.’

‘We know from the old merchant I spoke to before that Edward and Isabel’s father died young, their mother married again, but her second husband also died. And the merchant said that ever after she and both children seemed at odds with each other.’ Coleswyn leaned forward in his chair. ‘This old barrister I spoke to was consulted in 1507, back in the old King’s time. By Mrs Deborah Johnson, as she then was. At the time she was an attractive widow in her thirties with two children.’

‘Edward and Isabel.’

‘Yes. Deborah’s first husband, Master Johnson, had just died. Of the sweating sickness, you remember, which was raging in the city that summer.’

I remembered the confident-looking young father in the painting, with his tall hat, and the pretty wife and two little children. How easily even a rising man could be suddenly cut down.

‘Isabel and Edward’s mother had inherited his business. She was quite rich. There had recently been a case in Chancery over whether a woman could inherit and run a business and be a member of a Guild. The old barrister was able to reassure her that she could. He remembered her as a formidable woman.’

‘I recall her face in the painting. Pretty, but with a sharpness, a hardness to it. Like her daughter’s.’

‘Yes. A year later, Mistress Johnson consulted him once more. She was minded to marry again, a man in the same trade as her, Peter Cotterstoke, but she was concerned her rights in the business would pass to her new husband on marriage.’

‘As they would. Automatically.’

Philip nodded. ‘And so she was advised. She said her son and daughter, who were around eleven and twelve then, were worried they would lose their inheritance. But she was set on marrying Master Cotterstoke. And she did. But Cotterstoke proved an honourable man. Deborah Cotterstoke, as she now was, came back to the lawyer a third time, some months later, together with her new husband, and Master Cotterstoke made a Will stating that if he should die before Deborah, the combined business – his own and the late Master Johnson’s – would pass to her. He sealed the matter by formally adopting Edward and Isabel; therefore even if Deborah were to die first they would still inherit their share. Deborah, apparently, was visibly pregnant at the time, and the couple thought it best to formalize arrangements.’

I scratched my cheek. ‘So Cotterstoke was a good stepfather to the children. And they kept his name, which they surely would not have done if they disliked him. Did this old fellow know anything of a quarrel within the family?’

‘Nothing,’ Coleswyn replied. ‘Only that shortly after, poor Master Cotterstoke drowned. That we knew, but I decided to look out for the coroner’s report.’ I sat up. ‘Apparently one Sunday, shortly after the children were adopted and the Will made, Master Cotterstoke walked from their home just beyond Aldgate, through the city and down to the docks, where a ship had just come in with some goods he had purchased abroad. He took the two children with him, and he also had two servants in attendance, a normal thing for a gentleman walking out. One was Patrick Vowell, which is the name of the old man who is taking care of the house now.’

‘Indeed?’ I asked, my interest growing.

‘Both servants testified that Master Cotterstoke seemed perfectly happy that day, as did the two children. He was looking forward to the arrival of his new child. The servants left him at the customs house; Master Cotterstoke said he did not know how long he would be and they should wait outside. The children went on to the docks with him.

‘It was quiet at the docks, being Sunday. A little time later, a labourer heard shouting and crying from the water. He thought it was gulls at first but it came again and he realized it was a human cry. He ran to the water and saw a man floating there. The tide was full and anyone who fell off the wharfside would plunge into deep water. He called for some of his colleagues to help him get the body ashore but it was too late. It was Master Cotterstoke, and his lungs were found to be full of water; he certainly drowned. And apparently it was a misty day in autumn; someone walking near the edge could easily make a misstep.’

‘True.’

‘Both children gave evidence at the inquest. They said their stepfather had visited the ship, and then said he wanted to take a walk to see what goods might be available on other ships that had come in, and they should go back to the servants, which they did. Not uncommon for a merchant to do on a Sunday, though apparently the wharves were not busy that day.’

‘Was this lawyer you met involved in the inquest?’

‘No. But he met Deborah Cotterstoke once more afterwards, when he visited the house to help with formalizing the documentation for probate after the funeral. He said he remembered her as being in a piteous state of grief, which was unsurprising in a woman who had lost two husbands in little over two years, and the children also appeared shocked and stunned.’

‘Did she ever come back to see him?’

Coleswyn shook his head. ‘He wrote to her asking if she wished to make a new Will, but she did not reply. He heard a little later that she had lost the child she had been carrying at that time, again not surprising, given her sad circumstances.’ Philip sighed. ‘He remembered seeing her and the children in the streets from time to time. Then she sold the business and her son, my client Edward, decided to seek a different trade.’

‘And she never married again?’

‘No. Apparently she made a point of wearing sober clothes for the rest of her life.’

I considered. ‘Are you saying a third party may have been involved in Master Cotterstoke’s death?’ I caught my breath. ‘Or even one of the children? The coroner would only have their word that their stepfather was alive when they returned to the servants.’ I frowned. ‘Or that old Mistress Cotterstoke held them both responsible for her husband’s death? All the evidence indicates she came to dislike both her children; we have said before that the wording of the Will looks like an attempt to set them against each other.’ I looked at Philip. ‘These are horrible thoughts.’

‘They are. But given the Will their stepfather made, the children and his wife Deborah had no reason to dislike or distrust him.’ He looked at me seriously. ‘But I have been struggling with my conscience as to whether I should go and speak to the old servant, Goodman Vowell. I have no authority from my client, but . . .’

I smiled sadly. ‘You would pluck up the roots of this madness.’

‘I wonder if their stepfather’s death has something to do with this carapace of hatred between them. And each has said they could do great damage to the other.’

‘I remember how old Vowell seemed distraught at Edward and Isabel’s quarrel at the inspection,’ I said. ‘He was obviously upset by their behaviour.’

‘But I do not see that I have the right to go and question him.’

‘You looked out the coroner’s report. And if Isabel’s behaviour now involves some possible threat to us both – ’ I raised my eyebrows.

‘A madwoman’s bluster.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Let me consider this further, Matthew. Let me pray on it.’

I would rather that he had gone to the Cotterstoke house at once and taken me with him. But I was not in a position to insist. I rose from my stool.

‘When you decide, let me know. And let us keep each other informed of anything else concerning this case that may affect us – personally.’

He looked up, fixing me with his clear blue eyes. ‘Yes. I promise.’

Chapter Thirty-eight

L
ATER THAT DAY
I called in at Treasurer Rowland’s office, only to be told he was in a meeting. On Monday I called again and this time the clerk said he was out, though passing his window on the way in I was sure I had caught sight of his long, black-robed figure leaning over his desk through the half-open shutters. When I went out again the shutters were closed. I wondered uneasily whether Rowland was avoiding me.

That day in the refectory I dined with another barrister I knew slightly; he planned to hire a wherry on the morrow and take his family on a trip down beyond Greenwich. As Rowland had told me last month, virtually all the King’s ships, fifty or so, were coming to the Thames to form a line from Gravesend to Deptford, past which the admiral’s ships would sail, and they were starting to arrive. ‘They say the
Great Harry
is already moored at Deptford,’ my colleague said. ‘All those ships that were at Portsmouth last year, and saw off the French.’

‘The
Mary Rose
will not be there.’

‘Casualty of war, Brother Shardlake,’ he said portentously. ‘Casualty of war.’

O
N
T
UESDAY
, the 10th, at the end of the working day, I invited Barak and Nicholas to take a mug of beer with me in the outer office. Skelly had gone home. Thoughts about the missing
Lamentation
still constantly buzzed in my head, and I thought a talk with them might give me some perspective. Barak asked if I had heard any more from the palace.

‘Not for over a week now.’

He shook his head. ‘Someone’s still holding on to that book. But who, and whyever not reveal it to the King, if they wish to harm the reformers?’

‘I wish I knew.’

‘And this Bertano,’ Nicholas added. ‘He must be here, if what Leeman said was true. We are well into August now.’ He sighed and his green eyes looked inward for a moment. Lord Parr had had Leeman’s body removed by the men he had sent to fetch me to the palace on the night of the shooting; fortunately, the students had not returned until the morning. I was sure that, like me, Nicholas would never forget Leeman’s face, suddenly destroyed in front of us.